


cured my january blues

by beverlymarshian



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Confessions, First Time, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Eddie Kaspbrak, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, everybody lives but we don't need to relitigate it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26405617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beverlymarshian/pseuds/beverlymarshian
Summary: So yeah, maybe Eddie broke the heater in the middle of January in their poorly-insulated New York apartment, but at least Richie was smiling at him while he did it. This is to say, of course, that it is absolutely, unequivocally Richie's fault, like most things that go wrong in the (tragically platonic) Kaspbrak-Tozier household. Maybe if it was less platonic Eddie wouldn't have to break shit when Richie was being annoying and could instead just drop to his knees.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 30
Kudos: 437





	cured my january blues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reechie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reechie/gifts).



> hello this is a birthday fic for the light of my life, the inimitable ree ([@REECHlE](https://twitter.com/REECHlE)) who said she likes her little oneshots fluffy, post-canon, and explicit, so baby, I got you. go wish her a happy birthday and you know, while you're there, check out her truly incredible smau [didn't see you coming](https://twitter.com/didntseeyouau). I love you to pieces, babe!
> 
> thank you to my friends who wordsprinted with me (m, hollz, jaise, and esp. whiz!) and to kal for giving it a once-over for me. love u all. title from knee socks by am.
> 
> only cw is a v brief mention of weed use bc all my eddies are stoners <3

Eddie wants to be absolutely fucking clear that none of this is his fault.

Sure, he has a bit of a complex about his perfectly average height, but Richie is the primary source of that complex. Eddie is just minding his fucking business trying to dust the damn apartment and maybe, _maybe_ he is just a little too short to reach the top of the bookshelf. A tad. Barely anything worth talking about, really, if you have a normal relationship with your height and a tasteful roommate.

If Eddie had been home alone, it would have been a simple, unremarkable affair. He may have huffed a little to himself, a respectable amount of frowning perhaps, but he would have retreated to the front closet to retrieve the stepladder that Mike bought them as a housewarming gift, because he thinks he's so fucking funny. It would have been a bloodless affair, and Eddie would have been able to continue dusting in peace. He longs for the alternate timeline in which he was home alone while dusting on this fine Saturday afternoon.

Instead he lives in a timeline where Richie is home, sitting on the couch, turning Eddie dusting into a spectator sport.

He offers to get Eddie the ladder, which wouldn't have been demeaning if it wasn't Richie offering; he offers to dust the "higher places" in the house, which is even more demeaning; and finally, he offers to pick Eddie up around the waist and hoist him into the air to reach the evasive upper levels of their home, which is the most insulting option he could have imagined and absolutely does not make all the blood in Eddie's body flow straight to his dick, because that would be insane. He's not taking questions.

And maybe he should have given in and used the stepladder to dust the top of the bookshelf, and maybe he should have swallowed his pride and let Richie get the spot he couldn't reach, but Eddie would sooner die than let Richie win fucking anything, so he climbs on top of their heating unit like a fucking unhinged person and dusts the top of the shelf from his precarious perch atop their sole source of heat.

He stands there, triumphant, for a moment. He hadn't needed Richie's help. He is a strong, independent almost-divorcé who absolutely does not need help from anyone, let alone Richie, who walks around doing things like reaching tall shelves effortlessly, his shirt riding up while he does so, Eddie feeling hot around his face each time. He stands atop the heating unit a moment too long as he thinks of this, almost regretting that he didn't make Richie dust because of the minimal fucking chance at seeing a sliver of his belly.

Then the heating unit lets out a terrible, horrendous creak of metal bending and a shuddering _clunk_ and Eddie very nearly topples off of it. A truly embarrassing affair, in the end.

At least it meant Richie was looking at him, which is really, at the end of the day, all Eddie wants. Pathetically, he notes. It is pathetic to want Richie's attention the way that he does, like a dog begging for a treat except that treat is shit like colour fucking commentary on cleaning habits and crowing laughter that cuts through the room even as Eddie swears endlessly about the broken heater.

Eddie hates that he would break their heater every fucking day if that's what it took to keep Richie looking at him, but thankfully most days do not come to blows. Most of the time he just has to complain about work or his divorce, insult Richie, or most frequently, sit there doing absolutely nothing remarkable and he gets Richie's full attention in return.

It's a lot of attention, Richie's full capacity. Eddie supposes there's an alternate timeline in which that full attention would be overwhelming, suffocating, even terrifying. It is probably the same timeline where Richie happened not to be home while Eddie was dusting. At the end of the day, Eddie is grateful for this timeline and how Richie's full attention feels like something precious, something at once gentle and throttling, something to be treasured and earned and _fuck_ , if he doesn't want to be the only one to have it.

So yeah, maybe Eddie broke the heater in the middle of January in their poorly-insulated New York apartment, but at least Richie was smiling at him while he did it. This is to say, of course, that it is absolutely, unequivocally Richie's fault, like most things that go wrong in the (tragically platonic) Kaspbrak-Tozier household. Maybe if it was less platonic Eddie wouldn't have to break shit when Richie was being annoying and could instead just drop to his knees.

It is, however, platonic, which means the only time Eddie spends on his knees is scrubbing the grout from the kitchen tiles. It's been twenty years since he last gave a blowjob but he knows with certainty it's better than cleaning fucking grout.

When Richie finally stops laughing, he helps Eddie down off the heater, which Eddie only agrees to because he's embarrassed enough already to let himself enjoy the feeling of Richie's arms around his waist and the way Richie flushes a pretty bright pink when Eddie stands close to him for a little too long. Richie phones the landlord who tells him, always talking loud enough to technically, on a decibel scale, constitute a scream, that he can get someone in but not until morning.

Which is fine. They have layers of clothing and blankets and they'll surely survive one night without the heater.

Despite the hiccup, they settle easily into their usual Saturday routine—a shared joint on the fire escape, takeout from a different place every week in their attempt to try every single restaurant in their neighbourhood, and then a double feature of a movie Richie likes and a movie with less than 40% on Rotten Tomatoes. They watch the movies back to back as the heat seeps out of their apartment, bodies drawing closer and closer together as the evening progresses.

When the credits roll on Passengers, Eddie turns to Richie to complain about how the trailer was so intentionally misleading that the movie was unenjoyable if only as an act of deception, only to find Richie already staring at him. Richie startles for a moment, eyes darting to the screen before settling on Eddie again, blinking rapidly, trying to—what? Pretend he wasn't staring? Eddie watches, words caught in his throat, as Richie's eyes skitter from his eyes down to his lips to the rolling credits, and then back to his lips.

He thinks, for a moment of startling and uncharacteristic optimism, that this is it: that they are finally going to kiss and stop dancing around something that's been in the making since Eddie stole Richie's thunder in the Derry Hospital by coming out exactly ten seconds after Richie _and_ announcing that he was getting a divorce. Eddie doesn't like to lose and it certainly got Richie's attention.

Eddie thought, foolishly, it would all sort itself out rather quickly from there, what with the suspicious timing of Eddie's announcement, Richie moving to New York "for his career" (for Eddie, he knew this, they all did, but sometimes friendship means letting little lies like this go without scrutiny), and living in close proximity for five fucking months.

He should know better by now that to get his hopes up, but he's still disappointed when instead of leaning in and kissing Eddie right then and there, Richie jumps off the couch he's been electrocuted and almost sprints back to his fucking room.

Eddie returns to his bedroom terribly sober, grumpy, freezing cold, and most of all, excruciatingly horny because Richie spent the entire time they sat on the couch tugging Eddie closer and closer until his breath was hot on Eddie's neck and Eddie was almost in his fucking lap and the only thing between Richie's line of sight and Eddie's raging fucking hard on was a blanket propped up by Eddie's knee.

This leaves Eddie (again: cold, and he has been since they came back off the fire escape and let more icy air leak into the house) sulking in his bedroom with two possible conclusions: either Richie isn't interested in Eddie, or he's being a little bitch about it.

The thing is that they love each other, the losers, they do, but they're all a bunch of fucking gossips. So while Eddie pours his deepest, darkest thoughts out to Bev on the phone, he knows that they make their rounds a little, that Bev gives bits and pieces to Ben, who gives bits and pieces to Mike.

And Richie has hushed phone calls with Stan that Eddie walks in on sometimes, like Stan isn't the biggest fucking gossip of them all, giving bits of Richie's secrets to Bill, who gives them to Mike. The result is that Eddie has received a number of stern-sounding phone calls from Mike begging them to talk to each other instead of mutually yearning at cross-continental volumes. Eddie tries to insist he's being dramatic but Mike always pulls the phone away from his ear, points it towards the ocean, and shouts _you hear that? I'm laying on a beach with Bill rubbing sunscreen on my back and I still have to hear this shit_.

More than the game of post-Derry telephone they've been playing, Eddie has eyes. He has eyes that spend as much time staring at Richie as Richie stares at him. He is not prepared to quantify it but if he spends a third of his life sleeping and a third of his life at work, he thinks he is at least attempting to devote the bulk of the remaining third to staring at Richie. He can see the way Richie's eyes cling to him—lingering on his lips when Eddie smiles, on the line of his shorts after a run, on the oversized arm holes in Eddie's workout tanks. He knows the way Richie looks at him because it's familiar.

When Eddie was younger, he feared hunger. An unusual fear, no doubt, but one of many things that felt written into him, conditioned—he could eat his share and no more, he could have what he was supposed to and no more, he would eat his three square meals and nothing more. This carried him into adulthood, into perfectly portioned meal plans and rigorous exercise and a lifeless diet that was designed for sustenance, not for enjoyment. Eddie spent his entire adult life thinking he had conquered hunger and all its ills—greed, indulgence, insatiability—until he took one look at RIchie inside the Jade and realized he had been starving for years.

Richie looks at him like maybe, at some point between ice cream cones and arcade candy, he also learned to fear hunger, like he grew afraid to ask for what he wanted. He did want, though. Eddie knows better than anyone that being afraid of hunger doesn't stop it.

So Richie wants him, he knows this, which leaves him with the unenviable answer that Richie is devoted to being a little bitch about this. Unenviable because Eddie was really enjoying being a baby about this and hoping his problem (read: boner, feelings, probably love but he's not ready to say that) would simply be addressed if he just stared at Richie enough.

When he storms into Richie's room, wearing one of Richie's University of Chicago sweaters on top of two other layers _and_ long, ashy grey sweatpants that he has had to cuff at the ankles, Richie is still awake, reclined against his pillows, with the light of his television flickering across his face, reflecting off his glasses.

Maybe Eddie shouldn't be making rash decisions when he's grumpy and freezing and horny and _hungry_ for the sound of squirrely laugh and the touch of those large hands on his skin, but Richie had to go and make him break the fucking heater. Maybe he's cold. Maybe he wants the goodnight kiss he was robbed of. He doesn't have to decide. He contains fucking multitudes.

Richie looks up when Eddie rounds into the room, blanket draped over his shoulders like a particularly fluffy cape, and barks, "It's fucking freezing."

Richie hits pause on the television, halfway through an episode of Kitchen Nightmares. "You did break the heater."

Every atom in his body compels him to start an argument about who _really_ broke the heater, so really, his choice not to do so is in violation of his fundamental nature.

"I can't sleep," he says, like he tried at all, like he didn't sit in the dark in his room for thirty minutes grumpy about how Richie won't just kiss him. "Move over."

To his credit, Richie doesn't hesitate, doesn't question him at all, he simply shuffles over to one side of the bed and tosses the covers off with a flourish. "Your majesty."

Eddie thinks he should be sainted for everything he's ignoring right now. "The insulation in this building is shit. Is this why our heating bill is so high?"

He crosses the room as Richie resumes the episode. On screen, Gordon Ramsey throws an overcooked steak against the wall of the kitchen. Eddie drops his blanket on the floor, rationalizing that he already has to launder it since he decided to drag it across their floors on the short trek between their rooms.

"We could move somewhere nicer. I have the money."

"I don't," Eddie says sourly, dropping his phone on the nightstand on his side of the bed.

"Your commitment to going dutch on rent even though you live with a celebrity is some class traitor behaviour. You should be using me for my money."

"I'm certainly not using you for your brain," Eddie says, like a liar, and slides into bed next to Richie, pulling the comforter over his clothed body and easing into the warm spot Richie left in the middle of the bed. "Don't call yourself a celebrity, it's fucking tacky."

"What should I call myself?"

"An idiot."

"Okay, class traitor," Richie says, still staring straight at the TV as a grin slips across his face.

Eddie hates him, so fucking much, almost as much as he loves him. The _almost_ will get you every time. "Turn off the TV. I'm tired."

Richie tuts, but the television fades to black as Gordon hits what has to be the conclusion of his rant. "First you break the heater and then you come into my room to tell me how to spend my evenings?"

"Yes. Lie down."

"Yes, sir," Richie says, voice playful as he shuffles down onto his back.

Eddie barely manages to contain his visceral reaction to that sentence, but the inside of his brain is lighting up like a suburban neighbourhood between Thanksgiving and New Years and his dick twitches in his sweatpants. You'll have to excuse him for being on a hair trigger after spending five months of his life living in the same space as Richie.

All the energy he put towards deleting the words _yes sir_ from his brain leaves him vulnerable, and he certainly doesn't expect Richie to sit back up, grab the back of his collar with his right hand, and pull his sweater over his head in one long, easy move that leaves him bare fucking chested right next to Eddie. The bastard has the gall to lie back down like nothing fucking happened.

If his voice comes out as a squeak it's because of the cold air. "What are you _doing_?"

Richie lolls his head to the side, a lazy smile on his face visible even in the dark of the room, even as the only light comes from the streetlamps outside their apartment and the creek of light from the ensuite that Richie leaves on because it helps with the nightmares.

"You said you were cold," Richie says, like that's an answer.

In that same alternate timeline where Eddie's day continued without incident, he is probably having a perfectly adequate if sexually frustrated evening in his room, alone. Instead, Eddie has to sit here next to Richie like he's not openly staring at his bare chest, at the hair that curls high on his body, the curve of his pecs, the valley of his sternum and the soft swell of his stomach that gives way to a dark trail of hair disappearing beneath his boxers, because god forbid Richie wear pants to bed in the middle of winter.

"And you're not?" he hears a voice say that sounds suspiciously like his, but he wouldn't know. He's still staring at Richie's chest and thinking about all the ways he wants to get his hands and mouth on him and has absolutely no regard for what his mouth is actually doing in present time.

"Skin to skin contact is better for hypothermia," Richie says, still grinning.

"I'm not hypothermic, asshole."

"If you didn't want to cuddle you just had to say," Richie says, unbothered, reaching for his sweater. "Your loss, truly, I was going to let you use my body, and you—"

Eddie snatches the sweater off the bed and tosses it far enough across the room that it lands in a lump at the doorway. Richie blinks at him, stopping mid-sentence, smile slipping off his face to give way to something nervous. _God_ , Eddie hates that, hates that Richie thinks for a second he has anything to be nervous about with Eddie. He pulls off his own sweaters, layer by layer, peeling away the tiny remaining core of warmth he had huddled deep under the sweaters until the cold air hits his skin.

Eddie settles down onto the pillows on his side of the bed, tossing one of the extras down to the foot of the bed and letting himself sink into the remaining two. He pulls the soft comforter up over his skin, the scratchy slide of fabric doing nothing to quell the cold that's starting to feel less like pinpricks and more like knives on his body.

He stays there for a moment, taking stock. He's wide awake now, the cold air going straight to his head, any remaining vestige of fatigue chased out of his body. He can feel the nice, new mattress settling around his limbs, curving to his body, lulling him into its embrace. Mostly, however, he can feel the heat radiating off of Richie's skin and how fucking hard he got the second Richie took off his fucking shirt.

When Eddie rolls onto his side to stare at Richie, he finds Richie already glancing at him, from his periphery. Richie doesn't look away this time, instead rolling onto his side with a low groan, face inches from Eddie.

"Big spoon or little spoon?" Richie asks, voice soft, as he hooks one of his ankles around Eddie's, a gentle weight on Eddie's body.

That's all it takes—the quiet mumbles in the air between their mouths, the press of ankle bone against skin, the weight of Richie on Eddie, the ease of the movement, the ease of _all_ of Richie's movements, the way he expands and contracts to make room for Eddie in every single part of his life.

Eddie doesn't answer, instead placing his hands on Richie's chest. Richie goes stock-still under his hands, eyes wide, still fixed on Eddie. Eddie doesn't meet his gaze, not at first, instead staring as his hands chart Richie's body. The coarse hair under his fingertips, the way goosebumps leap to his skin while Eddie touches, moving down over his pecs, across his stomach. Richie sucks his stomach in for a second until Eddie swats at him, and he relaxes as much as he can while barely breathing. Eddie continues to touch, over his belly button, down along that trail of hair, hands lingering dangerously close to the waistband of Richie's underwear before skating back up his sides, revelling at the hills and valleys of Richie's body under his hands.

Inevitability. The feeling that something is certain to happen, that it is unavoidable. Eddie wonders if that is the right word, if unavoidable is too harsh a characterization, like he would ever have tried to avert this course, like every small little step he took over the last six months wasn’t an attempt to shift them closer to this eventuality, to his hands on Richie's body.

"Eds?" Richie asks, voice almost a whisper, strained and tight and hoarse, something drenched in panic. Behind that there's something else. Some unmistakably hopeful. Eddie is more than familiar with the sentiment.

"This isn't how I wanted to do this," Eddie confesses, voice still octaves too loud for the stillness of the room. "But I think I'm tired of waiting."

"Do what?"

Richie knows. Richie knows from the moment Eddie says it, or from the moment he touched him, or maybe from some earlier moment, with Eddie standing proud atop the heating unit as it cried out from under him. He doesn't flinch when Eddie's hands slide up his body, doesn't look surprised when Eddie curls one hand into his hair and the other around his jaw.

"This," Eddie says anyway, and brings their mouths together.

No one ever told him kissing the right person could feel like breathing for the first time, like a rush of something not a want but a _need_ , something fundamental. The world slots into place in small little movements—a hand curled around Eddie's hip, a palm around his neck urging him closer, their lips pressed together—and Eddie wonders how he has gone months without this when he thinks he couldn't last seconds now that he has it.

The tender slide of their lips together melts into open mouths, into tangled breaths and quiet pants, into the slide of their tongues together and the way Richie makes keening little sounds right into his mouth, like he's bursting at the seams for this. Eddie kisses him, fingers twisting in his hair, trying to pour everything he can't quite say into the point where their mouths meet: when he sucks on Richie's lower lip he means to say _I'm here_ , when he licks the back of his front teeth he says _I'm sorry we waited so long_ , when Richie's mouth falls open and he sucks on his tongue he says _I love you, I love you, of course I do. And you love me_.

Eddie kisses him until he forgets how to actually fucking breathe, until Richie is laughing into his mouth like little gasps for air, until Eddie is so dizzy he has to pull away. When he does, he stays close, foreheads pressed together to ground him, to ground them both.

"I've wanted to do that for so long," Eddie admits. He wants it to come out accusatory, a little mean, but his heart is expanding in his chest like a fucking hydrogen bomb reaction and he's honestly lucky he's not fucking crying.

"How long?" Richie asks. "Bet I have you beat."

Eddie shakes his head. "Longer than I remember."

The curve of Richie's smile softens and his hand on Eddie's hip slips behind his back, pulling their bodies closer together. "You didn't have to break the heater to get into bed with me."

Eddie gives him a little shove, one palm flat on Richie's collarbone, the other still twisted in his hair. "You could have kissed me first, coward."

Richie grins a smile that lights up the dim room and he shrugs, and—

And.

And for several long moments there, all Eddie knew in the world was the space between their mouths and how they bridged it, finally, how they breathed together when they kissed and how they breathed together when they pulled away. The entire scope of his world was narrowed in on the curve of Richie's lips and the stubble on his jaw and the way their noses bumped together before sliding into place. Now Eddie can see them again now in full, like a view from above—half-naked, legs tangled together, skin alight in every spot they touch and every spot they have yet to touch. Eddie doesn't remember what it means to be cold.

He used to fear hunger but now he lies between Richie’s sheets and has every last crumb of Richie’s attention, bright blue eyes fixed on his face, and Eddie’s starving. He’s starving and unafraid.

"We don't have to do anything tonight," Eddie says slowly, although the statement feels a little bit like dying.

"Is that a but I sense?" Richie asks, hand skating down over Eddie's ass, punctuating his question with a little squeeze. It takes every single remaining brain cell not to moan.

"But I want to. If you do."

"Fuck," Richie groans, eyes closing. His palm spasms on Eddie's ass and he arches back against it. "Yes, please, anything you want."

“Anything?” Eddie asks, teasing him a little, leaning close to mumble the word against Richie’s jaw while he presses kisses along his skin.

Richie's response is earnest, almost painfully so. " _Anything_ , Eddie baby. I'm all yours. Like always."

That answer triggers two very different reactions in him. The first is a tightness in his chest, a prickle in his eyes, the itch of rising tears, like his heart is too big for his body, like his love for Richie is too big to be contained. The second is a brain numbing degree of arousal at how eager he is to give way under Eddie’s hands. Only Richie has ever been able to inspire such a range of emotions from him.

"I'm not fucking you when the apartment is like this," Eddie says, trying to convince himself more than anything, breathing the words into Richie’s skin as he follows the line of his neck.

"But you are hypothetically fucking me when the apartment is not like this?"

“There’s nothing hypothetical about it, I’m fucking you as soon as physically possible."

Under his hands, under his lips, Eddie can feel every hitch of Richie's breath, every moaning vibration, every shift and arch against him. Richie's back curves up head falling back, and he lets out a low, reverberating moan. Eddie thinks he can taste the sound in the junction of Richie's neck and shoulder, where his skin tastes like soap and sweat. Eddie sucks a mark into his skin, not a biting, desperate mark but something slow and building, worrying the skin between his lips and teeth until colour rises to the surface.

“Want me wet and ready for when the door closes on the furnace guy tomorrow?” Richie asks, voice high in his throat.

He can picture this, as Richie says it, and it's enough to make his head spin: Eddie in the living room, lying to the technician about how the heater fell into disrepair, while Richie laid himself on the bed, teasing himself open, fingers circling his hole before pressing in. Richie would have to keep quiet as he opened himself up, pressing deeper into himself, hiding his face in the pillow to muffle the sounds. Eddie would spend the whole time not really listening to the tech and instead straining to hear the sharp edge of a gasp or the creak of the bed. Richie would walk into the room when he was done, legs shaky, fully dressed, but they would both know.

The door could close behind the technician and Eddie could take him anywhere—up against the front door, on the floor of the hallway, bent over the kitchen island or the arm of the couch or any other spot in their house. He wouldn't even have to undress—he could just pull himself out of the same sweats he's wearing now and press into Richie, already slick and ready for him. He didn't think he could get harder but he twitches in his pants at the thought of Richie wanting him like that, pressed up against any surface they could find.

But it’s not what he wants, not the first time.

“No," Eddie says slowly, moving his mouth down along Richie's collarbone, to the highest curls of hair on his chest. He mouths a hot line down his sternum. "I want you to let me take care of you when the door closes on the furnace guy tomorrow. Open you up nice and slow. Do you think you can do that for me?”

Richie’s answer is lost in a gasp as Eddie bites down on the meat of his pec, just above his nipple, teeth sinking in harder than he intends but the sound it draws from Richie is heavenly.

“ _Yes_ ,” Richie breathes out, less of a word and more of a plea. “Fuck, are you trying to kill me?”

Eddie, amused, fond, terribly in love with the man under his hands, admits, “Maybe. Can I suck you off?”

“You _are_ trying to kill me,” Richie says, staring down at him now, eyes wide with something that could be arousal or could be wonder but, knowing Richie (or learning him, Eddie thinks, he's still learning him like this) it's both.

“That’s not a yes.”

“Yes, asshole.”

Eddie _hmms_ at that, taking his time. He mouths along Richie's chest, pausing to suck at his nipples, noting how soft Richie's breathing gets, how quiet little gasps fall from his mouth, how he squirms. There's nothing urgent about the pace, about the night, about the time they have together. Even the cold doesn't bother him now, not as it prickles along his neck and his back. Richie is warm enough for the both of them, shuddering under his roaming hands and his trailing mouth.

When Eddie kisses further, over his solar plexus, lips drifting over the top of his belly, he can feel every rise and fall of his chest, of his belly, of the swell of skin and muscle. He follows Richie's stomach down, down, down, mouthing along the line of hair above his waistband. He dips his tongue beneath the fabric, just enough for Richie to buck his hips up, whining, and Eddie laughs against his skin, before pulling back and sitting up. He pushes the rest of the blanket off their bodies. This time the air hits his skin sharp, biting, enough to startle him out of the fog settling in his brain—the narrow focus on Richie's skin and his breathing and the way his body moves under Eddie's.

He turns to look at Richie. His face is bathed in the soft orange glow from the streetlights outside. He stares back at Eddie, eyes wide behind his glasses. His gaze is sharp, fixed on Eddie as if it’s impossible to look somewhere else. He gives Eddie every ounce of his attention like it's something he deserves, something he has earned, like Eddie ever did anything to deserve it except love him his entire life. Maybe that's enough.

Richie's smile is soft and he leans up to kiss him again, because Eddie can, because he likes how Richie's lips feel under his and thinks that given a choice between the outside world and the space between their bodies he would always choose to live here. It's a long, slow kiss, tender but laced with the heat of their bodies and what comes next, what Eddie wants to do to him, how he wants to make him feel.

Eddie pulls away just enough that their lips still brush. “You can ask nicer than that, can't you?"

It gets the reaction he expects, with Richie dropping his head back, neck bared, a groan biting out between his teeth. “I'm dying. There's no blood flow to my brain. Are you some secret sex fiend?”

“I’ve literally wanted to suck your dick for 25 years. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this.”

Eddie clambers, awkward, limbs tangled, until he settles between Richie's knees, staring down at him. Richie doesn't look away, but a mischievous grin cuts across his face.

“Dude you wanted to suck my dick at 15? I just wanted to hold your hand and shit, I wasn't even thinking any impure thoughts.”

“Liar,” Eddie says, dropping his hands to Richie's thighs. He squirms under Eddie's hands until Eddie squeezes tighter and he settles with a shudder.

“Fine, but I did want to hold your hand.”

“And now?” Eddie asks mildly.

As he asks, he slides his palm up over Richie's inner thigh, along the hem of his boxer-briefs, then higher. He tugs at the waistband for a moment before smoothing his hand down, palming against Richie where he strains against the fabric. Any words Richie had on the tip of his tongue melt into a gasping moan, writhing under Eddie's touch. Eddie's mouth waters at the weight in his hand, the heat through the fabric, fingers teasing along the curve of his head, pressing his thumb down along the vein on the underside of his dick.

Eddie releases him and shimmies down on the bed, bracing himself on Richie's thighs, pressing him firmer into the mattress. He kisses once, above the waist band, like a promise, before ducking his head to mouth at him through the fabric. Richie squirms under him but doesn't move, held firm by his grip on his thighs. Eddie presses his tongue along the head of Richie's cock and Richie nearly shouts, swearing, laughing, sounds bleeding together as Eddie continues to press wet, sloppy kisses to the front of his underwear, the fabric soaking with his spit and the precome beading through the fabric.

“Tease," Richie says, through gritted teeth. The hand not fisted in the sheets comes to the back of Eddie's head, not pushing so much as holding, almost gentle.

"You haven't asked for anything nicely yet," Eddie says, following his shaft through the cotton, mouthing along the length of it.

“You're so mean," Richie pants out, delighted.

"You like it."

"You have no idea," Richie coos. When Eddie looks up to meet his eyes, his pupils are so wide they overtake his iris, not a sliver of blue left. When he opens his mouth again, there's not so much as a sliver of a joke. His hand cups firmer around Eddie's neck. "Please, baby. Please. I need your mouth so fucking bad."

On another night, Eddie thinks he might like to draw this out, to tease Richie until he's begging, _really_ begging, putting that big mouth and endless chatter to use, writhing under Eddie's hands. Tonight, _please baby_ is all it takes for Eddie to snap. He sits up long enough to curl his fingers in the waistband of Richie's boxers and tug them down. Richie's cock bobs free, landing with a _smack_ against his stomach, a dark pink even in the low light of the room, precome oozing from the head. Eddie shuffles back to get the boxers all the way off, tossing them into the mess of clothes on the floor of their room, before settling back between Richie's legs.

He wraps a hand around the base of Richie's cock, noting, with as much annoyance as interest, that while Richie perhaps exaggerated his claims, he is still certainly above average. Eddie hasn't sucked a dick since college and hopes it's like riding a bike but really doesn't care, doesn't care if he chokes or if his jaw aches or if Richie has to grip him by the hair to set the pace. His mouth waters at the sight of it, at the curve of his length, at the pearl of moisture at the tip.

When he takes Richie in his mouth he loses all sense of the world beyond the slide of their skin, the salt on his tongue, and the sounds Richie makes above him. Richie's head falls back against the pillow in a mess of curls and his hand twists harder in the sheet. His fingers in Eddie's hair tighten and relax and _god_ , Eddie loves this, loves seeing how Richie can lose control, how Eddie can make it happen.

It's slow at first, but Eddie relishes the weight on his tongue, the sharp musky scent in his nostrils. He sucks at the head of his cock, tongue pressing flat against the underside, swirling around the head, dipping into the slit. His mouth works over Richie, bobbing his head slowly, taking more of him each time, hand pulling up each time he slides along the length. Richie's fingers twist into his hair, tugging softly at the strands, just holding him there on his cock.

And it's good, it's _really_ fucking good, because what Eddie lacks in form he makes up for in enthusiasm, licking and sucking obscenely around Richie's cock, letting it get wet and sloppy, saliva dripping down the length of him, easing his grip.

"Fuck, Eddie, fuck, you're so fucking hot, Jesus, fucking look at you," Richie babbles from above him. "Your mouth feels so fucking good. I can't—I can't believe—fuck."

Eddie knows he's getting sloppier, more desperate, ducking his head faster over his cock, trying to take more than he should, wanting the risk and the fullness and _more more more_ of those sounds Richie's making. He's desperately hard against the bed, almost painful, and with each slide along Richie's cock he grinds down against the bed.

Richie's words bleed together in gasps and half-sentences, breathing getting faster, each moan when his cock hits the back of Eddie's throat and he swallows around him. Eddie releases his vice grip on Richie's thigh, a red handprint in his wake from where he was squeezing, little dark circles where his fingertips pressed hardest. He lifts his hips from the bed and shoves his hand down the front of his pants, desperate for some friction on his cock, for anything.

He's leaking heavily against his sweats, precome dribbling down the side of his cock, and it's not quite enough for an easy slide but it's enough to get Eddie off, enough for him to twist his hand in long, jerking pulls around his cock while he takes Richie deeper in his throat. He moans around Richie's cock, sinking as far down as he can go, eyes pricking with tears, and he almost comes like that. His pace shifts from quick to punishing, bobbing his head faster over Richie, jerking himself off in time with each duck of his head, each brush of Richie's cock against his soft palate.

Richie doesn't manage words, just a sharp pull of Eddie's hair, and Eddie pulls his head off just in time. Richie shudders through his orgasm, a spurt of come catching Eddie on the chin and the rest striping up over his stomach, his chest, and Eddie jerks him through it with the slick slide of saliva and come until Richie's voice is hoarse and his body settling back into the mattress.

Eddie doesn't bother getting his pants all the way off, just tugging them down far enough that his cock springs free. He wraps his hand around himself again, this time the one covered in his own spit and Richie's come and _god_ it's fucking filthy but it's slick and it's hot and it's Richie, fuck, it's Richie.

Richie's eyes are hazy now but still fixed on Eddie, a grin curling over his lips. He wraps one large hand over Eddie's and moves with him, just the right side of erratic, just enough pressure, with Richie's long fingers twisting over the head. He's not going to last, not like this, not with Richie looking at him through hooded eyes with the soft expression, not with Richie's hand around his and the taste of him in his mouth, not with Richie's chest covered in his own come, not with the thought of marking Richie up.

"Can I come on you?" Eddie asks, through gritted teeth.

"If I was in my twenties I would have gotten it up again from you asking that," Richie says, voice husky from exertion. "Please, baby, I want it."

It doesn't take much more than that, another shuddering breath, another twist of Richie's wrist, before he's spilling over their hands, Richie's thighs, his cock, his stomach, coming so hard from so little that he's shaking long after he's done.

He's still shuddering when he wipes his hand off on a clean patch of Richie's skin, over whining complaints about fairness. He's still shaking when the room around him comes back into sharp, icy focus and he remembers how they got here—the broken heater, the poor excuse, the sense of inevitability.

He thinks about inevitability again and how wrong it is to be associated with unavoidable, how now that Eddie has him all he wants is more of Richie. Nothing to avoid.

His legs are shaky when he stands and when he sops up the cooling mess on their bodies with wadded tissues from the night stand. His heart races in his chest as something that feels nauseatingly like _bliss_ rises in him, something that's a mix of relief and satisfaction and desire and _love—_ it's love, he thinks, as Richie giggles while he wipes them both off, hands wandering freely along Eddie's arms, his shoulders, a reminder that they're both here.

When Eddie falls back into bed he doesn't have a second to breathe before he's pulled into Richie's arms, until Richie is kissing his lips, his cheeks, his jaw, his neck, light fluttering little pecks that make him laugh, almost a tickle against his skin.

"You're a sap after sex, are you?" Eddie teases, voice soft, hoping Richie knows it's not a request to stop.

"Honey, I'm a sap all the time, just you wait," he promises, pressing a final, firmer kiss to Eddie's lips before easing the barrage and settling back on his side of the bed.

“Looking forward to it,” Eddie admits, because he is. He is. He wants Richie to kiss him in every inch of this house and every pocket of the universe.

“So don’t go breaking any more heaters just to get in my pants,” Richie chides, waggling a finger.

Eddie exhales sharply out through his nose in something that is decidedly not a laugh.

“Changed my mind, looking forward to absolutely nothing,” he says, and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, pretending like he’s ever going back to his fucking room after this.

“No, no, no, no,” Richie whines and he circles his arms around around Eddie’s waist, pulling him flush to his chest and laughing in his ear. Eddie puts up a perfunctory struggle before settling back against Richie’s chest, feeling his rumbling laughter against his back.

The room is still cold when they pull up the covers, but their skin is hot to the touch and their limbs twist together until the iciness of the room melts away. When their bodies are buried deep under the covers, Eddie rolls over in Richie’s arms to kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him, until he feels Richie press one last kiss to his temple before the world melts away to the inky black of slumber.

When they tell the story of this later—the dusting schedule, the struggle to reach the top of the bookshelf, the climbing and breaking of the heater, the easy kiss that felt like sinking into a warm bath—Eddie makes it absolutely fucking clear it was entirely his fault.

**Author's Note:**

> you know where to find me [@beverlymarshian](https://twitter.com/beverlymarshian) for wip excerpts, twitter threads, and not much else xx


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